Snape's return
by any1
Summary: This is a last goodbye to my ‚SubplotUnplottable’universe and therefore heavily AU: After serving Voldemort as a nameless fighter, Snape returns to Hogwarts.


Author's note: This is a last goodbye to my ‚Subplot/Unplottable'-universe and therefore heavily AU: After serving Voldemort as a nameless fighter, Snape returns to Hogwarts. I apologise not only for the long delay, but also for hereby laying Metaplot to rest. Too many other things have come up. This take-out chapter was to be somewhere near the end in Metaplot, a few weeks before the last fight. I believe it points back as well as forward and gives you a good idea where Metaplot would have headed. It also shows you one of the reasons why after HBP, I dropped my fanfiction: one of my major plot devices was far too similar to Rowling's plans.

Thanks so much to all my readers, reviewers and betas – you really kept me going all these years. I wish you many more enjoyable years with Fanfiction. Love, any

**Snape's return**

He stepped out into the rain, stole through the park, slipped through the gates and began his journey home. First, he walked only to put some distance between him and the manor, moving aimlessly but quickly. Then he realised orientation was a problem. He did not dare to use the roads, could not even use his wand as a compass, and finding his way with the help of the stars was nearly impossible due to the thick clouds above him. Heading vaguely north, trying to keep his path as straight as possible in the wilderness, was the best he could do. When the sun came up, he would at least know where east was.

During the first night, he walked until his feet were sore, until they blistered in their boots, until the pain became so bad that he could not stand to walk on. He sank to the soggy ground under a patch of needle trees. Needles above him, a soft layer of needles below – a meagre protection from the water all around him. His cloak was soaked, the robes underneath clammy. Needles poked into his shaven head. He shivered and longed for fire, longed for the warmth of a bed and the protection of a house. Well, he would have neither tonight, not even the comfort of a warming spell. Evnissyen's glamour concealment would be broken as soon as he used any kind of magic, he knew that. He would have to return to Hogwarts castle without the aid of his wand, just by the strength of his body, weakened as it was. It would have to suffice if he wanted to survive.

Lying in a foetal position to keep whatever warmth was in his limbs, he whispered his re-found name like a mantra. "Snape," he murmured, and the sound of his name comforted him a little. "My name is Severus Snape. I am a teacher. I teach Potions at Hogwarts. I serve Albus Dumbledore. My name is Severus Snape." He would not forget this again, he swore to himself, clutching the ocarina talisman Evnissyen had returned to him for protection.

He woke at the first light of morning, woke to cold and hunger. With a groan, he rose to his feet and decided on his direction, checking the sun's position. His stomach growled; his mouth was parched. He had no provisions, but that couldn't be helped. There was no point lying in the mud, trying to find rest. He could rest as soon as he had met his destination. He would have to walk during the day, too, if he did not want to become totally lost – the risk was no higher than during the night, as darkness was no cover for him: Death Eaters would search him night and day. His survival depended on luck alone.

His feet were worse than the night before. It wasn't long before he sat down on a tree trunk and removed his soaked boots. There were blisters on his feet, some puffed up with water, some filled with blood. Soon they would be inflamed and filled with pus; soon they would crawl under his feet and make and further progress impossible. Snape cursed silently and, for the first time in ages, felt almost like himself again. It would have been so easy to brew a potion, or even, lacking cauldron and ingredients, to administer a healing spell. Blisters on his feet, what a laugh. Nevertheless, they might mean his death if they kept him from finding Hogwarts before the Death Eaters found him.

Squeezing his swollen feet back into the boots was out of question. He longed for the coolness of the moist earth on his sore skin, but knew that the blisters would open soon, and if he walked barefoot with open sores, a serious inflammation was sure to follow. He tried to tear the shafts from his boots, wishing for a Severing charm or even a plain Muggle knife; eventually, he used a sharp-edged stone to cut the threads holding the pieces together, tore off the hems of his cloak and robes to use them as strings and tied the leather around his feet. The process took him more than an hour. He felt more awkward than ever.

His movements became more a stumble than a walk; around noon, they led him to a deserted orchard. He collected a few fallen apples, ate two and filled his pockets such as there were. He could not live on apples alone, he knew, or another kind of ailment would be added to his pains, but for now, they were better than nothing. At least the fruits also quenched some of his thirst.

For a while, he made good progress; the numbness in his feet was preferable to pain. Oh, a spell, a tiny spell to make things easier! More than once, his hand touched the wand in his pocket, only to withdraw again. Evnissyen had warned him: Magic would blow his cover.

Again and again he repeated to himself who he was, who he had been, where he was heading, which secret he was bringing home as the fruit of his torturous mission. The faces of the people he revered, the people he cared for, appeared out of nowhere, only to disappear again at times. For so many months, he had been a nobody, a nameless killer at the Dark Lord's command, someone who had wilfully shed his identity and renounced his memories to serve He Who Must Not Be Named. Now the shadow of forgetfulness was still hovering over his mind: Sometimes he stopped in his tracks, suddenly without the knowledge of where he was heading and why he should walk on, barely remembering his name. Then he struggled for the words that had temporarily left his mind, grasping for remembrance while his fingers clutched the ocarina.

The other memories came unbidden and effortlessly. He remembered his deeds as a nameless fighter, relived the raids and the nightly attacks, saw himself as one of many faceless killers and torturers. He tried to ban the images from his mind. They were behind him now, behind him for good. No one deserted the Dark Lord twice and lived. He was lucky to have come so far, but there was no way back. The only refuge from the fearful memories lay ahead of him, the final destination of his long march.

"I am Severus Snape", he whispered to himself. "I am no longer a nameless killer. I will return to Dumbledore – and to –" No, that thought wouldn't hold. "I will fight the Dark Lord again. My name is Severus Snape." There was a simple pleasure in knowing who he was again. It kept him going.

He walked for three more days, or was it more? Was it less? By the time he reached the gates of Hogwarts, he wasn't sure any more. It seemed he had always been walking, only vaguely aware of his direction, stealing food or gulping water if he could find it, sleeping on the floor when fatigue overwhelmed him. His body was a solid ache, his feet beyond description, his cloak and robes heavy with moisture and dirt. He stank; his scalp and cheeks were covered with irregular stubble.

At last, he reached for his wand, hoping the gate of the school would open for him again. The ancient spell that closed the strong iron gate to all intending evil in the grounds of Hogwarts made it quiver and shake – the gate seemed to hesitate, to weigh his conscience against the dangers he brought with him. For a moment, Snape feared he would not be admitted, that he would die within reach of his sanctuary, unable to pass the magic protection. When the gates swung open, joy hit him in the chest like a blow: He was home. He had prevailed. He would live.

The grounds seemed endless, the castle in their midst remote. It was only a few steps more, a couple of steps before he stood before the headmaster, before Dumbledore lifted the last spells shadowing his mind, before he could pour out the secret for which he had paid so dearly. He could see the outline of the towers and turrets, could see the lights in the windows. No matter how much his feet complained, he would take the last steps and faithfully report to the head of his order.

"My name is Severus Snape." It took him more than a hundred painful steps to realise he wasn't heading for the castle. He was heading for a small house next to the lake, a low, windowless building that looked lifeless and deserted. He told himself it was no good going there. The witch inside wasn't waiting for him. She didn't care for him, not enough to understand what he had been through, not enough to justify that he went to her before even going to Dumbledore. He should turn around, he told himself, spare his feet the torture, forget the face which even the Dark Lord's spells hadn't completely banned from his mind. She was with Black, he reminded himself, and if Black wasn't back from his flight, she would be thinking of Black, not of him. There was no point in going to her. Nevertheless, his feet carried him to that house, not the castle. When he was close enough to touch the door, he gave up his resistance to the inevitable. He knocked.

In the lightless wall, a tiny sliver of light opened to him. There was the slightest hesitation, than a choked noise; then the door was opened wide with a jerk. She stood before him, staring. "Verus," she murmured.

"Valerie." After days of mere whispers, his voice sounded like in desperate need of oil. Suddenly he remembered his soiled clothes and shaven head, recalled how terribly he looked and smelled. Would she be repulsed?

Without another word, she flung herself on him, embracing him and burying her face on his grimy shoulder. For a moment, the world stood still. Then she pulled back and scrutinized him briefly. Her face was wet; whether from the moisture of his cloak or from something else he could not tell. There was a smudge on her forehead that definitely had been transferred from his soiled clothing.

"You are alive, you still have all your limbs, and you remember me. It is more than I could have hoped for," she said with a timid smile. Then she took his both of his hands and pulled him into the light of the building. Obediently, he stumbled after her.

Inside, her band members were obviously having a quiet beer. They were so obviously trying not to look curious that it almost made him laugh. There was no trace of Black, he noticed to his vague delight.

She sat him down on one of the sofas, scrutinised him again and then said a few words to the two Muggles, the Arabic drummer girl and the gay bass player. Both scuttled off while Valerie busied herself with removing his moist cloak and the remainders of his boot leather wrapped around his feet. Snape perceived all this through a haze; only when she touched his feet, the sharp pain brought the world back into focus. Then there was suddenly a basin of warm water for his feet; Roary, the singer and potions maker, added a few drops of healing potion. Snape found a cup of hot tea in his hand and biscuits to dunk in the other. Thankfully, he gulped down some hot liquid containing dissolved biscuits, finding it the best thing he had ever eaten. The pain subsided; warmth returned to his body. He looked into her face and found a smile there. He was home.

For a long while, he said nothing, just sat there and contemplated his happiness, too weak to communicate it. Aided by the Muggle bass player, Valerie pealed him out of his robes, leaving him only his underwear (and therefore at least a part of his dignity, for which he presently cared surprisingly little). She hung a Muggle fleece jacket over his shoulders and covered his legs with a blanket. He drank more hot tea and nibbled another biscuit, resisting none of their efforts to take care of him.

"It's amazing you managed to get away, Severus." These words, spoken by Roary, scratched the surface of his consciousness and forced him back into a world where he was responsible for his words and efforts.

"I had help," Snape responded, forcing himself to look straight into Roary's face. This wizard was important, president of the notorious League, someone in who Dumbledore put his faith. Roary's mistrust was only natural, even if a little insulting. A known double agent did not meet many people who took his words at face value. It was vital that Snape explained his situation.

"A renegade Death Eater put a glamour concealment on me and as good as freed me from the Dark Lord's control curses," he continued, wondering for the first time whether it was a good idea to tell the headmaster about Evnissyen. Dumbledore had not heard about his traitor son for so many years – would it make him happy or unhappy to hear that Evnissyen was alive and had aided Snape in just another attempt to wreak random havoc on his surroundings?

"I have returned with important information which may very well help us win the war." Could he gain Roary's trust this way? If only the president of the League believed him! "Indeed, I will go to Dumbledore and tell him about it as soon as I feel up to the walk – he will want to hear this straight away," he added with an attempt at a lopsided grin.

An eerie silence fell on the room.

"Verus," Valerie finally said very quietly, meeting his eyes, "I'm sorry to tell you, but Albus Dumbledore is dead."

"Var!" Roary jumped up from his armchair. "Are you mad? This is classified information – _deadly_ information indeed. How can you tell – _him_?"

"Calm down, Roary," Varlerta retorted wearily. "He needs to know, and you know he is one of us. I am convinced we will not win this war without him, and he will cover for Dumbledore just like we do."

"Fair enough, if you say so. But what about –" Roary looked around. Obviously, he was talking about the two Muggles in Roary's and Varlerta's band.

"They've known for a while," Valerie replied curtly.

"You talk in your sleep, hon," Roary's lover Pat added almost gently.

So Roary was talking in his sleep, unwillingly telling his lover – what? Slowly, very slowly the meaning of Valerie's words became clear to him. Albus Dumbledore was dead. The greatest wizard of the world, protector of Hogwarts, head of the order – and, last but not least, Snape's protector and fatherly friend, dearer to him than any family member or friend, was no more. He had expected to feel pain at such news, but instead, he felt only numbness.

"How can that be? How did it happen?" he asked hoarsely.

"He was killed by Lord Voldemort during an attack on the castle," Valerie responded. "He turned around a fireball aimed at the castle – and paid with his whole life for it."

"Then this is what happened." Despite himself, despite the terrible news, Snape was amazed. "When he killed so many Death Eaters, Dumbledore gave his own life. Not even the Dark Lord knows about it. In fact, this is outrageous."

"Listen, Severus." Roary looked dead serious. "If Lord Voldemort finds out that Dumbledore is no longer with us, we are lost. He will attack immediately, and this time there will be no hero to save the castle."

"Unless – well, we believe it is possible that by sacrificing his life, Dumbledore put the same spell on all of us that Lily Potter once put on her son – the spell of a life saved by someone else sacrificing his own," Valerie interjected.

"This may be the case, but I wouldn't want to put it to the test," Roary pointed out. "The spell may not work, because if he hadn't taken on the fireball, Dumbledore would have died with the rest of us. Lily Potter chose to die even though Voldemort might have let her live, or so Harry Potter told us. Be this as it may, Voldemort must not find out what happened. To conceal Dumbledore's death, we are all taking turn impersonating him with the aid of Polyjuice Potion. This is the reason why the public believes he is still alive."

The news was still sinking in. Dumbledore was dead. Their leader was no more. He had come all the way to bring him vital information – and who should he tell now?

"Who is in charge of our battle now?" he asked.

Roary and Valerie exchanged glances. It was obvious that Roary wasn't sure whether or not to trust Snape, while Valerie – well, she had always trusted him, no matter what, and for some strange reason she had always been right.

"We are, more or less," she replied. "Really, Minerva is our leader in name, but she took Dumbledore's death very badly. She's not as strong as she used to be, and while we consult her in all important decisions, we find she lacks the will to be a true leader now. The same goes for Chent Flitwick – he was elected third-in-command, as you remember, but he is not a fighter – not a war strategist, should I say. Of course, there are others suitable for leadership, but we did not want to enlarge the circle of those who know about Dumbledore's death without great necessity – the fewer people know, the better."

Ignoring the scathing look Roary shot at Valerie, Snape asked: "Then who does know?"

"We do. Ambrose Curtis knows, too. He would make a fine leader, but with his duties as an Unspeakable – and I am sure you know about the recent source tribulations – and with his loyalty to the League, he is too busy. Then the kids know – you know, Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. No, don't make a face, Verus, I don't care whether you like them – we will not win the war without them. But I suppose you will agree with me that they are too young for leadership. And now you know, and they know." With a vague movement of her hand, she indicated Pat and Aisha.

"Roary is President of the League," Snape interjected. "I think there was agreement that he should not be head of the order, too."

"So there was," Valerie agreed. "And there was an agreement that I shouldn't be leader because of a certain – call it a genetic burden if you will. Really, leadership should have been yours, everybody knows that. But you weren't here when we needed you. So we take turns in impersonating Dumbledore, and as most people still believe him to be alive, the question of leadership is not debated openly. Mostly the job is mine these days, although occasionally I am relieved by Chent Flitwick – Roary would be missed too much, and Minerva won't do it anymore. I think she can't handle the feeling of having male parts."

He resisted the urge to grin at her remark. Important things were at stake. "So what you're really saying is that by tricking everybody into believing you are Dumbledore, you made yourself secret head of the order." It would have been a lie to say he didn't mind.

"In a nutshell, yes." She was looking straight into his face. It came close to an insult. "I hate to deceive the order, but I see no other way. As for leadership, so far there was no one else. Somebody had to do it, and now I am beginning to get the hang of it. I get help from Minerva, Roary, Ambrose and Chent, and I am beginning to think we are doing a good job. After all, we are still alive, and that in itself is a miracle."

He had to agree, even though he did not like it. Leadership should have been his, as she had said. He had obeyed Dumbledore without a question, because he had respected the ancient wizard immensely – but in spite of his dubious past, somewhere he had always heard the unspoken words that he was his successor, or maybe Minerva's successor. Now that he had been away, he that had performed duties for the Dark Lord, he was less respectable than ever, and his place had been taken by somebody else – worse, by Valerie. He felt his pride sting, and hated himself for it.

"We want you to eventually take your place in the order again, Severus," Roary addressed him. "However, I suppose you know many people will mistrust you. If I understood you correctly, you were under a control curse by the Dark Lord. _Imperius_, I take it?"

"_Tabularasa_," Snape informed them curtly.

"Shnirk," Valerie moaned. "How'd you get out of that one? And is it completely broken?"

"As I told you, I had help," he replied truthfully. "But I am not sure I am completely cured from it. Also, Dumbledore placed a memory charm on me. I was hoping he would lift both. Now I will have to find somebody to help me in his stead. At the moment, I am rather confident about who I am, and on whose side I am on. As for tomorrow, I can give no guarantees."

"We will find some way," Valerie said with her usual, sickening optimism. "Ambrose might know a way, or even Chent. We could also discretely ask Bill Weasley if one of his cursebreaker friends is good with memory charms."

"Still, we will have to be careful," Roary insisted. "I expect you will take no offence from this, but we can't let you out of sight until we know the curses won't pull you back towards the Dark Lord – you know too much already. Moreover, we'd better keep your return secret – right now, both sides want to see you dead, and it would complicate matters if we'd have to protect you. Also, it might be a good idea to tell us straight away what you were going to tell Dumbledore. You sound like it's important, and it is possible that the _Tabularasa_ will prevent you telling about it later."

Great. So now they were going to lock him up like a wild animal, until they were properly sure the curse was properly broken, which they would perhaps never be. He could not help feeling resentment.

Probably reading his face, Valerie put a hand on his arm, a gentle, kind hand that made his anger look silly. "I know you've been through a lot, Verus," she said, "these past few days, and before that, too. You've probably been through more than any of us can imagine. We don't mean to be disrespectful to you, and neither do we intend to trust you any less than we possibly can. As for the risks involved, you know them yourself. You would not act any differently in our place."

She was right, and he knew it. He had always known the dangers of letting others mess with his very mind. He had always known he might never be the same again, or be treated as one of them again. If not for the extreme circumstances that had made him leave Hogwarts considering himself a dead wizard, he would never have let anybody go as far. As it was, he knew the only slight chance of regaining trust – the trust of the people who mattered – lay in trusting them himself, completely, without holding anything back.

"If you wish it, I will tell you what I know," he responded, knowing she would take this as an answer.

Everybody looked at him expectantly.

"I've come to tell you how the Dark Lord rendered himself immortal, and how this immortality can be broken," he told them. "His secret is hiding his own heart out of his body. Therefore, the body can't be harmed as long as the heart itself remains intact."

"_Stoneheart_, I see," Roary commented. "It's been done before – it's a trick that is thousands of years old. The heart is magically turned to stone and hidden in a secret place – a very dangerous and bloody ritual, but one of the best-known methods to achieve immortality. Decades ago, the theory that Voldemort had a stone heart hidden somewhere came up. The problem is that many experts searched for the _stoneheart_ and did not find it, even though there are spells to reveal the sheer malice necessary to execute such magic."

"Like all educated wizards, I am well familiar with this." Snape could not help snubbing Roary a little. He faintly remembered liking the spectacularly handsome singer, but tonight he had little sympathy for him. He felt so tired. If only he could sleep, sleep in a warm bed. But he knew they were right. He had a task to do before that – he had to tell his story.

"The reason why the Dark Lord's _stoneheart_ was never found," he resumed, "is that it is hidden by a place resisting most magic. It is hidden in the prison of Azkaban in the body of Dolores Lestrange. Her life and the Dark Lord's life are merged into one and preserved in a status that can be described stone-like."

For a moment, they just stared at him. Then Valerie deduced: "So to kill Voldemort, we will have to kill Dolores?"

"If I am correctly informed, we will have to kill Dolores Lestrange first and then fight against Voldemort," Snape corrected. "We will –" He hated to say it, hated even more to think, to imagine it. "We will have to open up her body and take out the _stoneheart_. It can be destroyed with a fire hot enough to melt ore."

"Merlin's beard – how did you find this out?" Roary asked, by now obviously awed and much friendlier for it.

"Cunning," Snape replied flatly, unwilling to go into detail. Valerie was still giving him a funny look. Did she know about the past, about Dolores and him? Die she know what it did to him, even after everything that had happened, to talk about Dolores' body being ripped open by violence?

"This is indeed the kind of information we need most urgently," Roary told Valerie, stating the obvious in the most blatant way.

Valerie followed suit. "We will have to figure out how to get Dolores out of Azkaban. If you ask me, I am surprised she is still there. If she is that important, I would have expected Voldemort to have gotten her out of this horrible place a long time ago."

Snape gave her a mirthless smile. "Your predictions of the Dark Lord's movements are far from accurate. Your thoughts lack cruelty. He wants her right where she is, not under his nose where any renegade Death Eater could kill her to make himself a name. Tell me, where could she be safer than in Azkaban?"

She shook her head ever so slightly. "So he will keep his most trusted servant in such a place, and his own heart as well? Well, if my thoughts lack that kind of cruelty, I am glad of it."

"As secret head of the order, you will have to be cruel sometimes." Snape gave her a look of challenge. "Are you up to it, Valerie Riddle?"

She made a face. He knew he had hurt her by using her real name; the startled look of the silent bystanders, the two Muggles, told him even her close friends hadn't known.

"I think I am up to it, Severus Snape," she replied firmly. "Are you up to following orders? As you well know, a leader is only worth as much as her followers will let her lead. At least as long as we do not know how much Voldemort's curses have affected you, you will have to do as you are told, or you will be endangering all our efforts. This is particularly the case if we ask you to be Dumbledore – something which would make a lot of sense, as he is supposed to be with us and isn't anymore, and you are supposed to be gone, but you're here."

Being Dumbledore would give him a lot of power, he knew. The shape of the ancient wizard would give weight to his words. Then he caught himself. Merlin's beard – Dumbledore was dead, and he was thinking about power. "Until I am declared free of the curse and we will discuss leadership anew, I will do as I am told," he replied, meeting her eyes, feeling in his heart that this promise was as good as any oath.

"Good." She smiled gently. "Then I hereby order you to bed. You look dead on your feet – or rather, on your behind, if you'll excuse that expression. Do you wish to be escorted to your dungeon, or would prefer to you sleep here on the couch?"

Even with his feet all but cured, Snape resented the thought of walking another step, but regaining a certain sense of dignity, he replied: "If my quarters are still vacant, I would like to return to them."

"I'll take you over there, then, assist you with everything you need and lock you in," she told him.

Lock him in? They were seriously going to imprison him? He should have known, but that didn't make it any better.

"Whatever," he replied flatly.

"I'll look in on you again in a couple of hours, then, Severus," Roary informed him. "In which case, I am going to bed immediately. Pat, Aisha, are you coming over to the castle?"

Things had changed for the worse, Snape noticed as the small group crossed the grounds. Roary and Valerie had their wands out and were obviously on guard – not wary of him but rather of possible attacks from the darkness surrounding them. Hogwarts was not safe. He had known that – through the haze of half-destroyed memories, he seemed to remember participating in a failed attack on the castle himself. Nevertheless, once more he realised that home wasn't home any more – or, at least, it wasn't safe.

They parted at the staircase, Roary and the Muggles going upwards, Valerie accompanying him down to his dungeon. The familiar sight of the well-trodden stairs, the bricks polished by thousands of students' hands, seemed odd to Snape. So many things had passed, and the very staircase had the audacity to be the same as always. They walked in silence.

She unlocked his old room for him, Summoned bedding and sheets, making him uncomfortable with her readiness to serve. If he could have thought of a polite way to throw her out, he would have done so. He was tired and weak, both his body and soul were soiled. What was she doing here, so close to him, what's more, in his bedroom?

"That Black person," he asked abruptly, "is he not back from his flight, then?"

"He's back alright," she replied curtly, bustling with his pillowcase. He wished she would go now, and then he didn't.

"But you didn't – I mean, he is not aware that Dumbledore is no more?"

She mutely shook her head, discretely and wordlessly applying a warming spell to his blankets. Merlin's beard, did she think he was a fragile old man – and what's more, one unable to apply warming spells himself now that he was safe in the castle?

"You didn't tell your _lover_ you are practically the head of the order now?" he insisted.

"Oh, that." Was she sneering? Indeed, it looked like a sneer. It had to be the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. "Well, I'm afraid this is history. – Do you have your own chamber pot somewhere? Please excuse the disrespectful question, but as I'll have to lock you in ..."

Her voice trailed off. She must have realised that unlike her, he had his NEWTs and magical teaching degree and was perfectly able to look after himself, he thought sourly, but underneath all sourness he felt a warmth that had not been there before.

"Well, I wish you a good night, Verus," she said quietly, meeting his eyes. Then, very quickly, she turned away and opened the door.

"Goodnight, Valerie." He watched her leave the room and close the door behind her; he heard the key turn in the lock. Very slowly, he stripped off his clothes – the strange Muggle jacket as well as the vile-smelling underwear of a nameless fighter. Tomorrow, he would shower and shave, he decided when he gratefully sank onto his cot, only to find a nightshirt hidden under the blanket. Now, when had she Summoned that one? He hadn't even noticed. Tomorrow, right. Tomorrow he would apply a spell to make his hair grow back. Tomorrow he would do his best to show them he was sane and reliable, someone who neither needed a nurse nor a guard. He would show her he was perfectly able to lead them into battle in her stead if he had to, he told himself.

Snape fell asleep with almost a smile. History, she'd said. Maybe not everything had changed for the worse in the castle.


End file.
